


he's the one you save

by Acacius



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: & (1) sheep pun (sorry couldn't help it), Gen, Historical References, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Apocalypse, Pre-Relationship, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, also follows book!canon that crowley is bad with animals (bless him), btw i know (0) zero things abt sheep so if anything is just. completely wrong. that's on me lol, can you believe i make crowley carry a sheep on his back for half of this fic lmao, dialogue-heavy fic is dialogue-heavy, oh also they get drunk at the end so enjoy that too??, set a couple decades before the rome flashback in ep 3, what can i say except have some fluff and pre-relationship bantering, while aziraphale is... very obviously much better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 08:23:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20561225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acacius/pseuds/Acacius
Summary: Aziraphale offers to help a young shepherd find his missing sheep. Crowley, to his infernal bewilderment, is personally roped into the rescue mission.





	he's the one you save

**Author's Note:**

> yes i'm back to writing short, self-indulgent fics to cope w/ stress. what's new--water is wet & i am back at it again, folks.

“Wasn’t this one of uh… _his_ parables?” Crowley mutters just as the abominable creature tucked over his shoulders starts swinging its legs, giving the demon a swift but harmless kick to the cheek. “Oi, watch it!”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale asks, preoccupied with feeding the lamb trotting beside him slices of an apple he’d picked from a once withered fig tree.

_(“Wait, isn’t that…?” Crowley had trailed, the flicker of a memory rising to the surface: a certain man from Galilee cursing a fig tree to no longer bear fruit._

_Aziraphale waved a hand. “Oh, I’m sure it’s fine. Look at the poor dear; she’s practically starving. One little miracle wouldn’t hurt.”_

_Crowley had wanted to say that the lamb didn’t look the least bit hungry, especially with the remnants of some sort of berry staining its mouth, but he decided against antagonizing the angel. Besides, he wouldn’t mind a bite of an apple himself.)_

“Parables, Aziraphale. You were with me at the crucifixion. Doesn’t that ring a bell?”

Aziraphale’s expression turns sheepish. “Oh, you mean Yeshua. Well, I’m afraid I’m not really up-to-date on all his teachings.”

Crowley stares incredulously. “But you’re an _angel_. Did you even meet the man?”

“N-no, not exactly,” he stammers. “I was quite busy, you know. Spreading joy and goodwill amongst humankind.”

“More like haggling for scrolls and sampling all of the Fertile Crescent’s culinary delights,” the demon replies under his breath, the suggestion of a smile on his lips despite the nonplussed sheep baaing in his ear.

Aziraphale gave Crowley a withered look before returning to feeding the happily bleating lamb.

“Anyway… it was only one sheep. In the parable, I mean,” Crowley starts, reaching into the folds of his tunic for the apple he had taken from the tree Aziraphale had miracled into bearing fruit once again. “And the shepherd was the one who went off to find the missing sheep. I actually like that parable, y’know.”

“Is that so?”

“Mhmm,” Crowley affirms, taking a bite of the apple. At the sound of crunching, the sheep slung over his shoulders starts wiggling around again, drawing a hiss from the demon. “For the love of Satan, calm down! You’ll get a slice once you learn to behave.”

“I’m guessing that sheep are meant to represent humans in that specific parable?” Aziraphale asks, already knowing the answer.

“Obviously,” the demon huffs petulantly. “Nothing on Her green earth is as stubborn, stupid, and poorly equipped to survive like sheep.” Still, he pauses to retrieve a blade from the seemingly infinite depths of his black tunic to cut a slice of apple to give to the fussy sheep.

Aziraphale smiles fondly at Crowley as he trails a few steps behind him, having stooped down briefly to pick up the lamb. It almost immediately falls asleep cradled in his arms, lulled to sleep by the gentle pace that Aziraphale walks.

Crowley turns around and makes a face. If it were on an angel’s face, Aziraphale would have supposed that the expression was one of subtle affection, but Crowley is a demon and demons don’t look at angels like that. They couldn’t. All too quickly, the expression falls from Crowley’s face, replaced with exasperation—a much more fitting emotion for a demon.

“Oh, come on. Your blasted lamb’s sleeping while I’ve got to deal with this.” As if proving his point, the sheep kicks his cheek. Again.

“You could just let the sheep trot along beside you. I could miracle up some rope as a leash or tether of sorts. If you’d like.”

“S’not a good idea,” Crowley explains, squinting into the horizon. It’s a few hours before noon, and the heat, while something angels and demons can miracle for themselves to a comfortable temperature for their corporations, wouldn’t be comfortable for an unsheared sheep. Or most humans, truth be told. “They wandered too far from their shepherd. The dirt and stone here’s probably too hot for their, uh, hooves.”

(Unbeknownst to Crowley, cloven hooves did just fine on hot surfaces. But the thought was nice--even if the word nice would generally spin him into a tizzy.) 

Aziraphale oscillates between looking genuinely touched to attempting to school his features, not wanting to discourage Crowley’s act of kindness. He settles for a momentary flash of a heartwarming smile, inching closer to the demon until their shoulders are almost touching. It’s as close as Aziraphale’s dared to get to Crowley since Eden, since he had shielded him from the rain with his wing—a rather autonomic response, really, born from the desire to protect a demon of all creatures from the Almighty’s impromptu thunderstorm. He had been worried that the water was holy, a byproduct of Her righteous fury, but even after Crowley had gingerly reached a hand out, letting the water collect harmlessly in his palm, Aziraphale hadn’t lowered his wing.

He hadn’t even thought to do so until the rain had stopped completely, soaking him to the bone. Crowley had smiled, then, and well, it had made something flutter in his stomach. He still couldn’t quite name the emotion he felt, so he settled on locking away the strange, stomach-churning feeling deep inside. Like he did most of the time when it came to the range of all too human emotions Crowley managed to tempt out of him.

“So, what was the moral of the parable, if I might ask?” Aziraphale says in lieu of exploring his more vexing thoughts, batting his eyelashes in a way that humans would one day describe as giving someone _puppy-dog eyes_.

“Nghh,” Crowley replies, not particularly wanting to voice something as, well, un-demonic as Yeshua’s morals. What sort of world would it be if a demon started teaching moral ethics to an angel?

“Oh, I see,” the angel nods resolutely. “It must hurt—saying holy things.”

“It’sss not that,” he insists. “Doesn’t hurt. Just not something I’d want to turn into a habit.”

Aziraphale brightens instantly. “So you’ll tell me?”

Crowley’s retort dies on his lips as soon as he locks eyes with Aziraphale but he pretends to spend a few more moments debating his decision before grumbling. “…Fine.”

They stop underneath a white birch tree and Aziraphale miracles a shallow well of water in the shade for the two animals to drink from. The sheep that Crowley had carried trots back to him and attempts to climb up into his lap with all the grace of a bull shark out of water and all the self-righteousness of a domesticated house-cat.

Crowley immediately regrets _making the effort _to have certain genitalia that morning. “_Ngk_,” he says just as the sheep swiftly headbutts his chin which he rubs at sourly. “You’re lucky I don’t roast you on an open fire.”

He is, instead, forced to pillow his head on top of the sheep’s fluffy coat, spluttering out a few strands of fleece from his mouth. Crowley can barely see Aziraphale sitting across from him beyond the coiled wool, miracling a stump to sit on.

The whole _finding the lost sheep business_ is utter nonsense, Crowley realizes. So what if the young, impressionable shepherd, Hosiah of Jordan, would be indebted to him afterwards? He’d be indebted to Aziraphale too—and there was no reason to expect that the boy would choose his side over Heaven, especially given how personally invested Aziraphale was. The angel would _thwart_ his wiles at every turn, or at least distract him for long enough with good wine and stimulating conversation that Crowley would be more than amendable when it came to choosing a different target. After all, Hell was still ambiguous on just what he was supposed to be doing on earth; _make some trouble_, sure, but he still had the vague feeling that he was doing the right thing—or, rather, the wrong thing rather poorly.

In short, Aziraphale was going to owe him more than a bottle of wine for his troubles.

Speaking of Aziraphale, his lamb, bless her, merely bleats for his attention and springs forward into his lap after the angel pats his thighs invitingly. “What a sweet one you are,” he coos, running his fingers underneath the animal’s chin.

When Crowley reaches a hesitant hand towards his own sheep’s head, it spits on him.

“Oh goodness, my dear…” Aziraphale frets, snapping his fingers. The spit disappears immediately.

“I appreciate it.”

“Of course. Anything for you, my frie—“ the angel pauses mid-sentence, looking as frozen as a deer-in-the not-yet-invented-headlights. “Friendly adversary?” he finishes, his tone more of a question than a statement.

Crowley bristles. “M’not friendly. No demon’s friendly, angel. Best to remember that.”

“Right. Yes. How silly of me. I forgot what you were, for a moment.”

After a long, awkward pause, Crowley coughs, willing the sudden dip in atmosphere to change through sheer imagination. He imagines that he’s told a superb joke, something that has Aziraphale giving a real laugh, head tipped back, the line of his throat exposed underneath the creamy white exterior of his robes and… Crowley shakes his head, willing his traitorous thoughts elsewhere. Anywhere else.

“You wanted to learn about that parable, yeah?” he asks instead, running a cautious hand down the sheep’s back. To his surprise, it chooses neither to spit nor bite him. It actually lets out a sound of contentment, eyes closing. Perhaps the damn creature just needed a nap. 

Aziraphale nods. “Yes! I’ll eventually get a full copy of the Word, you know, once it’s been fully written and collected. But I might as well get a head start on what I’ve missed during my travels.”

Crowley snorts. “Can’t believe I’m doing the Almighty’s job, but that’s a bit blasphemous on its own, isn’t it? Makes it almost bad, in a way.”

“…I’d rather not think about it like that.”

“Fair enough.” Crowley shrugs and shares what he learned the day Yeshua confronted the Pharisees. 

* * *

Later that night, after finally returning the sheep to a very thankful shepherd, an angel and a demon transport themselves into an empty tavern near the heart of Rome. Crowley may or may not have caused a minor rat infestation a few hours beforehand, but he gave the animals orders, in detail, to leave the grain, grapes, and barley alone. He leaves thirteen denarii for the trouble of it all and sits back comfortably at the bar with a pint.

Aziraphale follows suit, tipping the barmaid handsomely as he raises his cup. “_Gaudete omnes_.”

“_Nunc est bibendum_,” Crowley supplies, clinking his drink with Aziraphale’s.

They drink well into the night, neither really wanting to go back to their respective duties. With an empty bar, a dozing barmaid, and plenty of room to muck about, the pair allow themselves to let loose, not bothering to hide their conversation from the one other very unconscious person in the room.

Aziraphale’s skin always gets a bit flushed when he’s drunk, a lovely dusting of pink that compliments his appearance nicely. It’s a thought that has Crowley quickly downing another tankard. Which, of course, he chokes on.

The angel miracles a white cloth immediately, the edges embroidered with tiny angel wings outlined in blue. In his haste, he accidentally miracles out most of the alcohol from his own system as well. “Crowley, are you alright?”

“I’m… I’m fine, angel. No worries.”

“Perhaps we’ve drunk enough for the night,” Aziraphale says, always the voice of reason when they went out drinking. “We should get completely sober.”

Crowley waves a hand noncommittally. “M’gonna sleep it off. There’s an empty bed up there,” he pauses, pointing urgently to the ceiling. “Up there. Above the tavern. Not, y’know, Heaven. And it’ssss calling my, mhmm, name.”

“Oh…” the angel’s cheeks redden. “You see, I already rented it for the night.”

“B-but… but you don’t even ssssleep, angel.”

“Yes, but you do.”

“I… I-I,” the demon stutters, his alcohol-addled mind stalling. “Don’t understand, Azira—Azirapha—Assshiraphale,” he tries again, hissing.

“I thought you might want to sleep off the alcohol. You normally do. So I… might have bought the room for you earlier. I do hope that’s alright.”

“You, you bought it? For _me_?” Crowley croaks, eyes startlingly wet with unshed tears.

“My dear, please don’t cry. It’s just a room. Come now, let’s get you to bed.”

“Not just a room,” the demon mutters, sniffling. “My room. For the night. ‘Cause you were thinking 'bout me.”

While Aziraphale was used to Crowley showcasing his emotions more openly when drunk, he was usually also drunk with him. This was the first time where he was sober and his friend wasn’t. The demon’s face, so open with unabashed gratefulness, tugged almost unbearably at his heart. All he did was rent a room for him; surely he didn’t deserve this much of a thanks?

“I’m always thinking of you, Crowley. You’re my… friend,” Aziraphale admits, reaching to help Crowley down from the barstool.

The demon swoops forward into his arms, nearly knocking them both to the ground in the process.

“A-are you okay? Crowley?”

“Mmm, yeah. I’m huggin’ you,” he replies, still sniffling. “I’ve always wanted to hug you, y’know.”

Aziraphale smiles, wrapping his arms around Crowley’s waist as the demon presses forward. “Is that so?”

Crowley’s spindly arms wrap around Aziraphale’s shoulders, his face buried in the crook of the angel’s neck. He sighs contentedly. “You’re soft. So soft. S’not fair. Did, did God make all angels so ssssoft? I can’t remember.”

Aziraphale chuckles, indulging the demon until he feels him going completely lax against him. “Alright, now it’s definitely time for bed.”

Carefully, the angel guides a drunk, half-asleep Crowley up the stairwell and into the single upstairs room, setting him gently onto the cot. Crowley’s hand reaches up to tug the angel closer by the front of his robe, and Aziraphale quickly catches himself on the edge of the bed, not wanting to topple onto the other man.

“Thank you… Azira. Aziraphale. I know I’m not supposed, supposed to say it. But I don’t care what Hell thinks. The whole lot can dive into a boily—boilin—boiling lake of sulfur. _Again_.”

This close, Aziraphale can see how Crowley’s eyes have changed, the whites of his sclera replaced with molten gold. It’s beautiful, really, Crowley’s eyes. They remind him of stars, of the white-hot core of the distant celestial bodies. They radiate the same amount of warmth, he thinks, nearly glowing in the dark of the room. He fights against the sudden urge to kiss his eyelids as soon as the demon’s eyes shutter closed, opting instead to place a chaste, near flutter of a kiss, onto Crowley’s forehead.

Crowley turns on his side, unconsciously angling himself closer to Aziraphale. When he wakes in the morning, he thinks that the feeling of Aziraphale’s lips on his forehead is just some sort of lovesick dream.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, spends the next few thousand years wrestling with his feelings and what it means for an angel to fall in love with a demon.

_(At the end of the world, when he thinks he might lose Crowley forever, Aziraphale decides that he doesn’t care what it means for an angel to fall in love with a demon. All he wants, in the end, is to go wherever Crowley goes, to live on earth beside him, and to never take their time together for granted again._

_Somewhere decidedly Else, God smiles down at her favorite celestial pair and snaps Her fingers. In one corner of the world, a shepherd finds his lost sheep and rejoices. In another corner dubbed Soho, London, an angel tells a demon his divinely inspired plan to outsmart Heaven and Hell._

_And against all odds, it works.)_

**Author's Note:**

> as usual, these two make me sappy as all hell, so feel free to cry in my inbox on tumblr @lux-mentis if u so desire. & thanks to any who read and/or leave comments/kudos. y'all are sweet & deserve the world~


End file.
